Fallen Angels
by Wishing For Rainy Days
Summary: Drabble Collection. Not all Slytherins are blind followers of the dark lord. These are stories about Slytherin characters who have a different aspect to them... And because they are not ordinary people, these situations and emotions could never be ordinary. New chap: Crabbe. Nothing good about this guy
1. Fear - Barty Crouch Jr

**__**Disclaimer: **__**__The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK.__

* * *

><p><em><em><strong>Character:<strong>___Bartemius Crouch Jr._

__**Prompt:**___Five minutes to midnight_

* * *

><p><em>"If we suddenly fall should I scream out<em>  
><em>Or keep very quiet and cling to<em>  
><em>My mouth as I'm crying<em>  
><em>So frightened of dying<em>  
><em>Relax yes I'm trying<em>  
><em>But fear's got a hold of me<em>

_Yes, this fear's got a hold of me"_

__**Death, by White Lies**__

* * *

><p><strong>Fear<strong>

Five minutes to midnight. It was December, and the cold wind invaded the house through the carelessly open window, rendering whatever heating spells might be in place ineffective. Bartemius wanted to feel the cold. He took of his shirt and shivered from head to toe for a second when the first gust of winter wind embraced his naked torso. He closed his eyes. The opened them up again and glanced at his wrist watch one more time.

The room was small. He barely gave one step and laid down, his shirtless back flat against the icy floor, and every hair in his body stood on end. It was almost as if the cold had taken form, sinking its long fingers into his skin, grabbing his lungs, making it difficult to breath. Numbing his higher thoughts, thoughts of the choice he was struggling to make. The cold itself caused him pain. Not a lot, though, just enough.

Midnight. Barty reached for his wand, pointing it up to some books in the upper shelves, making them fly over his head. It was a childish, pointless spell, but he did it because he could. He could now, that is. He was officially seventeen years of age. The trace had worn off. In a way, he was free.

_In a way_, the young Slytherin thought angrily. In so many other ways, he was still completely stuck, with no idea what to do with his life whatsoever. He often felt- Different, even brilliant, when he compared himself with kids his own age. He understood thinks quickly, learnt spells faster, remembered things few others could. Sometimes he even believed he would do great things, incredible things, and most days, he was sure he would never be a menial public servant like the indignant father who'd given him his name. _Have you ever felt like you were meant for something bigger? Something special? _Barty did...

The envelope with his O.W.L. results lied crumpled inside the dustbin half a metre away, whispering that these thoughts of greatness were nothing but wishful thinking. He had barely gotten passing grades in most subjects, as his father kept reminding him, grief and disappointment in the old man's voice. Most days, Barty didn't mind. But sometimes those grades made him wonder. Perhaps he would never be more than a disappointment. Perhaps he was destined to be- ordinary. And these dark thoughts filled him with fear...

Levitation spells were too easy. Barty needed something more challenging.

A cockroach climbed up his wall. One word, _Actio_, and it was in his hands. One more word, _Crucio_, and it rolled to the floor, moving its tiny legs in the air, in agony. That was what pain was supposed to look like. It didn't last long though. He did it again. That was more like it. He had had a good teacher.

_Crucio_, he whispered one more time. If the cockroach could scream, would it be screaming right now? Perhaps one day he would find out.

* * *

><p><strong><em><em><strong>AN**__**__: This is a drabble collection for my___**_**Slytherin Boot Camp**_**___, combined with the ___**_**Music Apreciation Challenge. **_**_

__Slytherin is a very misunderstood house. It is my intention to depict Slytherin characters as people we can relate to, or people we would like to meet, rather than blind followers of Voldemort. Whether or not I succeed, its up to the readers to decide.__

__More notes on my Livejournal soon.__

__Unbeta'd. Recently re-uploaded__

**__**Disclaimer: **__**__The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK.__


	2. Shame - Regulus Black

__**Disclaimer: **___The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK._

* * *

><p><em><em><strong>Character:<strong>___Regulus Arcturus Black  
><em>__**Prompt:**___Used_

* * *

><p><em>"So if you go and leave recklessly<em>  
><em>We can only be mean, we can only be mean<em>  
><em>That's something I, through the tons of my life,<em>  
><em>Never wanted to be, never wanted to be."<em>

__**Getting Even, White Lies**__

* * *

><p><strong>Shame<strong>

Regulus had been alone in his bedroom for some time when the loud pop of Kreachers' apparition magic was heard and the house-elf materialized over his rug, begging for forgiveness. His blood shot eyes were reddish and soared, one of them black from a heavy blow. His face was still wet with tears. His body was covered in bruises and cuts and there was blood dripping on the floor.

The bones of his leg were broken. It lay motionless in an awkward angle, as the elf dragged himself to the door. He was in pain, but to barge into his master's chambers unannounced was a terrible crime for a house-elf, and that was why, in spite of his condition, Kreacher talked so desperately about punishing himself.

Regulus jumped off his bed immediately and kneeled down to help the house-elf. _"It's okay, Kreacher, I ordered you to come to my room, remember?"_ he lied.

Regulus fixed the broken bones with a spell and pointed the wand to the cuts and bruises, whispering powerful healing enchantments that sounded a lot like a mournful song. That was his fault. When the Dark Lord mentioned he required an elf, Regulus volunteered. Whatever the job, Kreacher was the best. He was not an ordinary house elf, he was his friend.

After a while, Regulus picked Kreacher up on his arms and took him to his bed. The elf was confused, moaning in pain, speaking words that didn't make sense. Echoes of terrible memories and bad dreams. Water. He asked for water.

"_Aguamenti"_, Regulus whispered, and dropped the water into Kreacher's dry lips. The young man caught a glimpse of the dark skull carved in his forearm and for the first time, Regulus regretted it. He felt used. He had no idea that Kreacher would be tortured, but that was hardly an excuse. The dark mark on his skin made him just as responsible.

Had he not hurt others just as badly? Had he not done worse?

Kreacher drank the water eagerly, and Regulus watched. He watched his loyal companion of so many lonely hours in his youth, and wondered how could he have been such a fool? The dark lord shows no respect to anyone. How could he be expected to show respect to such a defenseless creature?

Like a comedy of errors, it all came back to Regulus. The fanaticism, the purposelessness, the desperate need to be feared. But Regulus was not afraid. He was ashamed. Of not putting up a fight, of being so vain... The Dark Lord branded him to make clear that Regulus' body and life belonged to him, but if he thought that was all Regulus had he was mistaken.

For the first time to Regulus' eyes, Kreacher seemed immensely old. The elf used to take care of him when he was sick. Now the roles were inverted, and Regulus would do his part. He would do better. As Regulus held the elf's hand he was sure…

He would atone.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Author's Note<em>**_: How was this one? I have this written for a while, updated here from an old account. It just fits in this drabble collection_


End file.
